


I've Got Those Amtrak Blues

by CharlieDemandsCoffee



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fall Out Boy never happened AU, M/M, Meeting Strangers, PoorMusician!Pete, Reality AU, RichBoy!Patrick, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3954859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieDemandsCoffee/pseuds/CharlieDemandsCoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete just bought a train ticket for God-knows-where and now he's panicking all over a complete stranger. But what if that stranger needs some help too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chicago--God Knows Where

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own this or any Fall Out Boy anythings.  
> Notes: Sorry if this seems OOC, I'm a little rusty. Let me know what you think and I'll write more. Based on the prompt about meeting strangers on public transport.

Pete had been in one of his “moods” when he bought the train ticket and it wasn’t until he was already boarded and sitting in his seat with his cell phone in his lap almost 24 hours later that he realized he may or may not have forgotten where this train was actually headed.

He gulped and tried to look nonchalant as he took out his ticket to look again. The little yellow ticket had been folded obsessively and to Pete’s overwhelming dismay, across the top read “CHICAGO----BOSTON”. Pete felt like an idiot. He only had one bag with him, enough clothes for a few days, maybe a week if he stretched it, but even then, where was he gonna stay? Had he even bought any money for a hotel or anything? Pete began to search his bag, finding not only his meds, thank God, but also his passport, ID, social security card, and about $60 in cash, but no toothbrush or hygiene products whatsoever. Pete fought the zipper closed, feeling wry humor and nausea battling in his chest.

  
What the hell was he going to do in Boston, for God’s sake! He had no business being on this train at all. He had to leave and forget this ever happened. Just go home, unpack, call Andy and his therapist, and make sure to destroy his laptop.

  
Just as he was making up his mind to somehow get off and sneak away (and get a refund on the ticket, because holy shit he did not have $300 to spare right now), the conductor did his final announcement and train started to move. He slammed himself back into his seat a little too hard and leaned his head back, closing his eyes and making a mental note to text Andy to never let him Google when he’s missed his meds again. The train was picking up speed, heading for a huge city that Pete had never been to, and didn’t know anyone in, and by the time he opened his eyes again and saw that the sky was getting darker he had worked himself into a really nice panic attack.

  
Despite his best efforts to keep his breathing steady and quiet, he must have been freaking out loud enough to disturb the guy across from him, because said guy had taken off his headphones and it took Pete a minute to realize he had started talking to him. Pete shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to focus on what the dude was saying.

  
“What?” he asked, his voice sounding weirdly far away.

  
“I was just asking if you were okay. You look like you’re gonna hurl,” he guy repeated, his brow furrowing.

  
Pete’s mouth tried to tell him that he was okay, and not to worry about him, but all that came out was heavy breathing and crackling noises from his vocal chords. His psyche could be a weak bitch sometimes, that’s for sure.

  
“Hey, hey dude, it’s going to be fine. Whatever it is, you’ll get through it," the guy said, trying to calm him and for some reason that caused anger to flare in Pete’s chest. He was not about to be the patient in a bizarre train therapy session with this guy.  
Pete turned to him, intent to make a snarky remark to get the guy to leave him alone, but not only could he not get any words out, his stupid brain decided to focus on how good looking this guy actually was, and how he was trying to be nice. This guy was actually concerned about a perfect stranger who could have been tweaking or something, for all he knew. Pete blinked, getting a good look at the stranger.

The guy was small, but built well. He looked uncomfortable with his body, kinda hunched and carrying his weight like it used to be in different places. Pete’s attention zoom-lensed on different parts of the guy’s face: his round nose, that thatch of reddish-brown hair, his clear light eyes, that perfectly shaped Cupid’s bow on his mouth...that mouth that was moving again, and Pete tried to listen closely this time. This guy, whoever he was, was helping him calm down.

  
“No, I-I’m okay, I just was kinda...panicking because I’m really not supposed to be on here,” Pete tried to explain, his throat feeling heavy and clogged, his eyes stinging. Oh God, if he cried like a big baby in front of this complete stranger on a train to Boston at 9:00 p.m. at night, he was really going to lose it.

  
“Well, you bought a ticket, didn’t you?” the guy asked, leaning a little closer. Pete hadn’t even noticed his body had turned to face him.

  
Pete shook his head, closing his eyes again just for a moment, “Yeah, but I didn’t mean to.”

  
The guy bit his lip, the skin all white-splotched pink, and put away his laptop, scooting his body around to give Pete his undivided attention.

  
“So, okay and correct me if I’m wrong here dude, but you’re freaking out because you bought a train ticket on purpose and now you don’t want to be going and you can’t get off the train?”

Pete laughed dryly; hearing it out loud like that made it sound really stupid. It was really stupid.

  
“Yeah, a little. Like, I know I brought that on myself but,” Pete looked down at his hands, picking at the loose skin on his cuticle, watching blood bloom there, focusing on the sting, “I get a little...nuts sometimes and I do things that are really dumb and now I just paid like, $300 for a train ticket ‘4:00 a.m.-me’ apparently thought was a good idea and I didn’t even know where it was to until I was in here...” Pete took a breath, knowing he was unloading all over this poor guy when he really didn’t deserve the playbook of Pete-crazy five minutes after meeting him.

  
The guy just nodded, then said, “Well, if it helps, I don’t really want to be here either.”

  
Pete looked over at him, “Oh yeah?”

  
The guy nodded, looking out the window behind Pete’s head. They were zooming through dusk now, trees and grass and sky all blurring together. The sound of the train was methodically steady and it relaxed Pete’s nerves a little.

  
“Yeah, but that’s a story for another time,” The guy mumbled, then said a little louder, “I’m Patrick, by the way,” and held out a small, pale hand.

Pete shook it, knowing his hands were cold around Patrick’s warm ones, and smiled a little. “I’m Pete.”

  
Patrick let go after a few seconds and even though Pete’s corpse hands had entered sub-zero land, Patrick either didn’t notice or was too polite to react. He just leaned back in his seat, studying Pete warily like he wasn’t sure how to help him, but like he wanted to. He didn’t look scared, just cautious, and Pete relaxed a little more. After a lifetime of untreated bipolar disorder, and numerous visits to the shrink’s office, and a river of medications they still couldn’t get quite right, Pete was used to people being afraid of him, or thinking he was insane. It was refreshing to not have that reaction for a change.

  
“So, what’s in Boston?” Pete ventured, and noticed Patrick’s slight wince.

  
“Um, well, I’m headed there for a uh, family reunion of sorts,” he gave Pete a tight lipped smile at that.

  
Pete nodded, “That’s cool. Better than my plans, for sure.”

  
Patrick’s smile softened, and that same concern twisted his features a little, “Are you gonna be okay? I mean, do you know anyone? Have anywhere to stay?”

  
Pete shook his head, panic threatening at the edge of his mind again, “No, but...I’ll make my way. If anything I’ll stay the night and head back on the next train.” But shit, he couldn’t do that because he really only had $60 and he needed way more for a ticket. But that wasn’t Patrick’s problem.

  
Patrick wasn’t convinced, “Do you actually have a game plan on how to get out of Boston once we get there?”

  
“Not at all,” Pete announced, his face breaking into a smile. No point in lying. At least if he was going to die in Boston, this guy might remember him and know how it happened.  
Andy would know, too. He knew how stupid Pete could be.

  
Patrick ran a hand over his face, sighing, “Look, I know you don’t know me, but I’m kinda worried about you here, man, and I was thinking...nevermind, it’s stupid.”

  
Pete took the bait, “No, what, tell me,” he prompted.

Patrick looked him dead in the eye, “My dad has an estate. That’s where I’m staying when I get to Boston. If you don’t have anywhere else to go, you’re welcome to stay. There’s plenty of room, trust me, you wouldn’t even have to see me,” Patrick blushed a little.

  
Pete was struck by his kindness, but wary too, “Would your dad mind that? I mean, I don’t wanna impose or anything. You don’t even know me.”

  
Patrick made a non-committal gesture, “He would probably think I was being weird, but that’s nothing new. He doesn’t really notice how many people are in the house anyway. He’s kind of a recluse.”

Pete started playing with his hands again, chewing on his tongue, “You always go around collecting strays?”

  
Patrick paled a little, “No! I mean, I’m just worried, that’s all. I mean, if you don’t want to I understand, I’m a complete stranger here, but I just...If you ended up dead or starving or homeless and I had the chance to help you and I didn’t...” he trailed off, looking down at his feet.

  
Pete tried to gather his thoughts, weigh his options. On one hand, he had no idea who Patrick was and the “estate” story seemed a little hinky, I mean, he could be a serial killer or something, didn’t they look completely unassuming? On the other hand, it was really either that or hotels in an unknown city until he ran out of money and staved to death. Okay, so maybe Andy or someone would bail him out, but Andy could barely pay his share of rent most of the time, let alone drop a few hundred on one train ticket. He couldn’t call his mother, since she was back in Jamaica this time of year visiting his grandparents, and he really didn’t know anyone else who would drop everything to rescue him.

  
“Yeah sure, what the hell. How scary could your family be, right?” Pete tried to joke, throwing his caution to the wind for now. If he was going to make his bad-decision bed, he needed to lie in in.

  
Patrick looked up, surprised and wide eyed, “Really? That’s not gonna be too awkward for you or anything?”

  
Pete laughed a little, “Probably, but not as awkward as begging you for money on the streets of Boston would be.”

  
Patrick laughed with him, the sound strangely melodious, “Well, Pete from Chicago, I guess you should know what little there is to know about me.”

  
Pete’s mouth quirked up at the corners, “Awe, come on, I’m sure you’re super interesting. I mean, you have to have balls to invite a complete, panicking stranger to your father’s estate.”

Patrick shook his head with a little self-deprecating smile, “Not really. I’m just too nice, or so my grandmother says. Let’s see, my name is Patrick Stump, I was born and raised in Chicago. My parents split up when I was eight and my dad moved to Boston, so I spend time going back and forth to visit. I love tea, I can play the drums, my favorite movie is Ghostbusters,” Patrick grinned at Pete’s chuckle, “And...that’s pretty much it for me, what about you?”

  
Pete knew he really shouldn’t reveal his personal life to a guy who could be a serial killer or rapist or something, but the guy seemed friendly, and so Pete let down his ever-present shields a little. His mom always said he was too cautious, after all.

  
“I’m Pete Wentz, I’m originally from Willmete, but I live in Chicago now with my roommate Andy. I love dogs, I have twelve tattoos, I can play the bass, and I love Ghostbusters too," Pete told him.

  
Patrick kind of lit up at that, and Pete couldn’t help but think he looked really good like that, all joyful at the simple fact that someone liked the same things he did. Maybe his split-second decision to buy this stupid ticket for this stupid train wasn’t going to be so stupid after all.


	2. Cleveland--Buffalo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete finds himself in high-spirits the next morning, even though he's in Cleveland and shouldn't even be on this train anyway. Maybe Patrick can make even this situation better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is finally back from the dead!  
> And it may take a bit of a different feel now that I'm back, so bear with me (it'll be the same at its heart, don't worry).  
> I'm also finally reading Pete's book "Gray", so I'm probably being influenced by his writing style.

Pete is still struggling to doze off as the train slides past Cleveland.

The city itself looks like every city people picture when someone mentions the word "Midwest": flat and gray in the early morning light, like a cheap display window in a store. Pete dimly wonders if real people even live there.  
He flips his phone out from his hoodie. The display reads 5:45 am. He groans lowly and shifts around, trying to get comfortable.

In his "manic and panicked" mode when he'd bought the ticket he hadn't stopped to think that he'd be stuffed into a coach class seat for over 20 hours on this ride. Hell, he hadn't even stopped to think about his destination. He mentally kicks himself for really only paying attention to the price and buying the cheapest ticket he could swing. He feels the dull ache in his hips kick him back.

His one small comfort is that Patrick is here, reclined across from him.

He looks so small, curled up in his cardigan, deeply asleep much to Pete's jealousy. The fact that he's here in the first place is weird. Didn't Patrick say they were heading to an Estate? The guy's family had to be loaded, and somehow he was sleeping there in the cheapest seat across from Pete, who literally lived paycheck-to-paycheck.

Giving up on sleep for now, Pete pulls his headphones out and waits for a while for the dining car to open so he can grab some coffee.

By the time 6:30 rolls around, Patrick is stirring awake, his thatch of hair messy like a little kid's, and it makes Pete's chest tight. 

"Nice of you to join me," Pete remarks with a smirk, putting his headphones back in his pocket. 

Patrick rubs his eyes and regards him with a squint. 

"Did you sleep at all?"

Pete stifles a yawn, raising his arms up above his head, his hoodie raising a little with the movement. He catches Patrick's eyes as they flicker to his waist.

"Nope," he answers, his voice distorted from the stretch. 

Patrick raises his hands to his hair, using the blurry reflection in the window next to him to attempt to tame it. 

"I had a hard time sleeping when I first started traveling," he says, and Pete snorts at that.

"I have a hard time sleeping, period. Insomnia's a bitch," Pete explains at Patrick's confused glance. 

He watches Patrick get his bearings for a moment, and then he leans toward him a little.

"The dining car just barely opened if you want to come with me. I'm gonna get some coffee, I'm beat." 

Patrick nods, "Just let me brush my teeth and stuff."

Pete waits for Patrick to get out of the bathroom, and then they head across to the dining car, swaying a little with the train and brushing shoulders. Pete resolutely ignores the small thrill that sends through him. 

Sitting with his hands curled around the hot mug of coffee a few minutes later, Pete watches Lake Erie fly past them. He's so tired he doesn't think he could keep food down if he wanted to, but Patrick's breakfast makes his stomach rumble a little. He reminds himself of the $60 in his wallet and tells it to shut up.

"So," he begins, watching Patrick cut his omelet with the side of his fork, "How is it you're sloughing it out here in coach?"

"What'd you mean?" Patrick asks around a mouthful of food. 

"I mean, your parents must be loaded to have an Estate, right? But they send their baby out to travel cheap," Pete remarks, taking a quick sip of his coffee and burning his tongue. 

Patrick looks supremely awkward at the question, and he clears his throat before he answers, "My parents do have money, yeah, but I stopped relying on them when I was eighteen, " he fiddles with his hat as he speaks, and Pete finds that nervous tick disturbingly endearing.

"And sure, I make a fair amount through my job now, but I prefer to do things cheaply. It feels...more real. I get enough pomp and circumstance when I visit the Estate, anyway."

Pete swallows, "I didn't mean to offend you or anything, man."

Patrick smiles tightly, "It's fine. I just tend to get defensive when people ask me stuff like that, you know? I don't want people thinking I'm, like, a spoiled trust-fund baby."

Pete grins, "You don't have one of those too, do you?"  

Patrick chuckles and grabs his mug of tea, "Careful now, or I'm gonna think you're trying to marry rich." His eyes sparkled over his cup. 

Pete laughs, his stomach flipping at the small flirtation.

"Yeah, and I'm sure you'd have a Hell of a prenup for me too." 

"Oh yeah. We can even use the one my parents used. Very classy," Patrick teases. Pete laughs again. 

He looks concerned suddenly, and at Pete's frown he asks, "Aren't you hungry?" 

Pete shrugs, his stomach clenching a little, betraying him, "I don't want to waste what little money I thought to bring with me. Don't worry about it, I'm fine." 

Patrick shoots him a look.

"You're a terrible liar, you know?" he says calmly, then tells Pete to look at the menu and order some food. 

"No, no, man. I can't...I mean, you don't have to..." Pete protests, handing back the menu,  but Patrick reaches over and covers his hand with his own, making the menu hit the table halfway across. Pete feels his arm burn as Patrick's warm fingers lightly brush his own. 

"This isn't charity, Pete. Don't worry about it, it's like, $10 anyway. And you need to eat," he assures, squeezing Pete's hand before pushing the menu back toward him. 

"Why?" Pete asks stupidly. 

Patrick's gaze softens a little, "In case my offer to let you stay at my father's Estate house wasn't enough, I kind of...care about you. I mean, you know, I care about what happens to you," he finishes in a hurry, blushing a little at the remark, "I mean, I'd be a pretty big asshole if I offered to help and then let you starve to death, or something." 

Pete feels his own face heating up, and he clears his throat before ordering the cheapest thing on the menu, only changing it to the French toast (which he'd been eyeing since he came in) when Patrick fixes him with an icy stare across the table. 

The toast is really good, and he catches Patrick smiling at him while he stuffs his face, probably looking disgusting in the process. He feels infinitely better once he's done, and Patrick waves away his thanks, telling him that he can jam with him sometime to make it up to him.

They're both knee-deep in a discussion about guitars and audio equipment when the tinny voice over the radio above their heads says that they're heading into New York and would be arriving in Buffalo soon. Pete checks his phone and realizes with a small shock they'd been sitting there talking for over three hours already. 

As he follows Patrick out of the car back to their seats, he finds himself thinking that it was funny he had found someone who made time go by like that, let alone found him on a random train he didn't even mean to be on in the first place. 

 _I care about you,_  Patrick had said, and for the first time in a long time, Pete actually believes someone did. 


	3. Boston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick arrives in Boston, Pete in tow, and Pete is seriously not ready to talk about his moment of stupidity with his pseudo-parents, Andy and Joe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented and kudoed this zombie of a fic! It means the world to me :)

They're halfway through Buffalo that afternoon when Andy calls.

Pete, seriously not ready to have this conversation right now, ignores Patrick's strange looks and lets Andy blow up his phone three times.

Then Joe sends a photo of Pete's vinyl collection and a match in his hand. Pete hastily picks up the next call when he spots the can of gasoline in the background. 

"Would you mind explaining where the Hell you ran off to? And why your room looks like I slept through a robbery?" Andy sounds calm, like he always does when he's about to blow a gasket. 

"I know, and I'm safe, okay? I'm...I'm on a train," Pete tells him, and he hears Andy move his mouth away from the receiver to tell someone else there with him. From the answering disdainful snort, Pete guesses Joe is there. 

"You could've left a note or something."

Andy's got that perfect "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" dad-voice. It makes shame creep up Pete's neck. Ever since he met Andy the guy had taken on a protective role. God knows Pete needed it most of the time.  

"I know, I'm sorry, okay? I just really needed to get out of Chicago," Pete explains.

He catches Patrick across from him, headphones on and staring at the laptop screen in front of him like it holds the secrets of the universe. Pete knows he's trying hard not to listen. 

Andy sighs at something Joe is saying in the background and he can hear Andy agree with whatever it was before he replies, "I understand, but you can't just take off. Not after last year."

Andy ends the sentence like he's dropping one of his Crossfit weights, and Pete feels it fall right into his stomach. 

"I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean to make you worry," Pete rubs his eyes with his free hand, "I'm okay. I promise. I have my meds with me," he finishes lowly, glancing at Patrick, and hears Andy's breathing even out a little. 

"Okay," Andy begins, and Pete can almost see him nodding, "Where's the train going?" 

Pete glances out of the window, at the suburban neighborhoods he can see in the distance, blurred beige across the grass. 

"Boston." 

Andy's silent for a minute, then Pete can hear him mumbling something to Joe. 

"Boston," Andy repeats flatly, "Pete, you don't know anyone in Boston."

Andy sounds weary, and Pete is used to that tone. He hates that tone; it reminds him that he's usually the one so unstable that people need to take care of him. Most the time Pete would give anything to be independent. He's just tired of people having to worry about him all the time.  

He knows he's made a lot of progress in the past year, but that little evil voice in his head likes to remind him that he's one step away from his friends forcing him to eat and take a shower if he slips again. Pete knows how shitty it feels to be so low that basic needs aren't met. He doesn't want to be that person again. 

"Actually I met someone. Here on the train. He's letting me stay with him," Pete says. 

"So you just randomly decided to stay with some stranger in a city you've never been to? Doesn't that sound a little dangerous to you?" Andy shoots back, and Pete can tell he's getting exasperated. 

"Dude," Pete begins, glancing at Patrick again to make sure his headphones are still firmly in place, "This guy is tiny. If anything goes wrong I'm pretty sure I can take him." 

"Whats his name?" 

"Patrick. He's from Chicago, too, actually. He visits his dad in Boston." 

Andy mumbles something to Joe.

"Okay..." Andy sounds like he's giving up, "I want you to promise you'll be careful. No stupid shit, okay? I can't exactly drop everything and come get you this time." 

Pete knows the implications behind that. He knows how much Hell he put Andy through. And Joe. And his parents.

Last year was the lowest he's ever been. Depressed, self-destructive, suicidal. He remembers Andy and Joe being there when he woke up in the hospital, Andy angrier than Pete had ever seen him. Pete had known Andy since his own failed attempt at college, and Joe since childhood. Andy had been in musical theory with him, and they'd clicked instantly. Joe had grown up three blocks away from Pete. Disappointing them again was the last thing he wanted to do. 

He makes his promises to Andy and says his goodbyes. Joe says he'll remind him to call once he gets to Boston. By the time he hangs up with them the sun is hanging lower in the sky, blazing orange across the carriage. 

"Was that your parents?" 

Pete hadn't even noticed Patrick had put away his laptop until he hears the question. He meets Patrick's concerned look across the aisle and sighs. 

"No, just my roommate. And my friend Joe," he explains, skirting the details, "They get worried." 

Patrick lets out a small laugh at that. 

"You looked like you were getting lectured by your dad." 

Pete feels his mouth twist in a smile in spite of himself.

"Yeah, he sure tries to be sometimes." 

"What's his name again? Andy?" Patrick asks. 

Pete nods, "Yeah. We've been rooming together since college. And I've known Joe since I was a kid. We both grew up in Wilmette ." 

Patrick nods, "I grew up around there too, actually. With my mom. Do they play music?" 

"Yeah, Andy's a drummer and Joe plays the guitar." 

Patrick looks genuinely interested. Pete's not used to that. He realizes how sad and pathetic that is. He decides to turn the conversation to Patrick to stop the prickly feeling he's getting from the attention. 

"So, what about you? I mean, you've talked about playing drums but do you, like, write or anything?" 

Patrick looks a little bashful at that. 

"Um, not really. I compose a little, and I guess I can sing too," he smiles wryly, "I hate my voice though." 

"Oh come on," Pete says, grinning, "I bet you're great." 

It's worth it just to see the little blush track across Patrick's face at that. Pete's struck again by how cute the guy is.

Patrick shakes his head, "I can carry a tune, but I don't think I'd ever be, like, the front-man of a band or anything. Too much pressure."

Pete nods as the lights come on in the carriage, and they're speeding through a dark grassy landscape now. Pete checks his phone. They have nearly two hours left before they'll be in Boston. His stomach does a little flip. He still has no idea what he's going to do there, but at least he won't be alone. 

He smiles at Patrick and grabs his headphones out of his pocket, plugging them into his phone. He picks out some Metallica and leans back, not really paying attention to the song. Patrick's arranging their pickup, and Pete guesses he's talking with his dad by the small frown he has. He's aware he's staring but he can't stop himself, studying stupid little things like how Patrick pulls at his sleeves when he's nervous, or the little mole he has next to his temple. He notices Patrick's stiffness. He must not like talking to his dad all that much. 

Less than 45 minutes to go, and Pete's music is interrupted by Joe calling him. He unplugs the headphones to answer, getting up and walking to the end of the carriage. 

"Hey man," Joe says, sounding tired. His voice makes Pete feel a stab of homesickness.  

"Hey. What's up?" 

"Andy's out. I didn't catch a lot of your guy's conversation. I wanted to know where you're staying." 

"With this guy I met on the train. His name's Patrick. His dad has an Estate out here. I don't know a lot about him, but he seems okay."

Joe's silent for a minute, then he perks up, "I knew a guy named Patrick. Used to work with him down at Borders. He said he lived in Chicago, right?"

Pete shakes his head a little, knowing he shouldn't humor Joe's ideas or he'll never shut up.

"I'm sure it's not the same guy. Chicago's a big place."

"Is he, like, tiny and got sort of red hair? Kinda chubby?" Joe asks, his voice animated.

Pete frowns, a little offended.

"Um, yeah, I guess. And I'm only, like, an inch taller than him."

Joe steamrolls over his comment. He seems to think he's onto something.

"I bet it is. Ten bucks. Ask him if he ever worked at Borders."

"His parents are loaded, dude. I'm sure he's never had to work anywhere without a private office."

They debate a little back and forth about the weird hunch before Joe turns serious again.

"You sure you're gonna be okay? I can drive down there."

Pete studies his scuffed Converse before answering. He knows Joe works full-time down at the coffee shop. Andy works hard too. They both can't just take a whole day off and come get Pete at a moment's notice. He really feels like the damsel in distress at that moment, but he decides to play it cool. He wishes they wouldn't worry so much, even if they have good reason to after the fiasco of last year. 

"I'm fine. This'll be good for me, you know? Just getting out for a while," Pete runs his fingers through his hair, "I needed to get away."

"Well, okay, but the offer still stands," Joe says, "Let me know when you get there. And be careful," Pete can hear the smile in his voice, "Any guy willing to take in someone like you probably can't be trusted." 

"You and Andy did," Pete points out.

"I rest my case." 

They say goodbye and Pete walks back to his seat just in time to feel the train slowing. He and Patrick load up their bags and Pete follows him out onto the platform. It's colder than Pete expected, and he curls his arm around himself a little.

They walk across the pavement and Patrick leads him over to a sleek black car, the kind Pete feels filthy just looking at because he knows he'll mess it up somehow. It occurs to him he's probably going to be around a lot of pristine, rich-people things for a while here. All the expensive crap they always have. God, he needs to shower. 

There's a huge bald dude waiting, and Patrick explains that he works for his father, as a valet. Pete doesn't know what kind of valet job would require someone to be uncomfortably buff and like, seven feet tall, but he follows Patrick anyway, giving the guy a wide berth.  

Once they're inside the impossibly clean interior, Pete's conversation with Joe comes back to him. 

"Hey Patrick?"

Patrick turns to him as the car pulls out. The road ahead is dark and unfamiliar and taking Pete to some stranger's Estate house. It's unreal. 

"Yeah?" Patrick asks. 

"You didn't used to work at Borders, did you?"


	4. Boston--Back Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete arrives at Patrick's father's Estate. Now to settle in and wait, and why did Patrick really bring him here, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a disclaimer: I've never actually been to Boston myself, so bear with me. Basically this is me winging it :)  
> Again, I don't have a beta, so any and all mistakes are mine.

They're mostly silent through the short ride from the station to Back Bay, which, as Pete found out, is where the Estate is.

He can't even imagine the amount of money these people have. Wasn't this area incredibly expensive to begin with? He thinks about the tiny two-bedroom he and Andy barely managed to snag, and that was even with Andy's new job at that nice gym. He feels sick.

Pete's never grown up with a lot of money, even though his dad was an attorney. Truth was, he wanted to give Pete and his mom a good life, so he bought a nice two-bedroom outside of Chicago, and kept with it even when the neighborhood expanded and the prices around them went up. Pete was lucky he got the scholarship he did, even though college itself was a pretty big disaster since he left a quarter out from graduation.

He was never going to live that down with his mother. She had screamed at him, and begged him to finish, not caring that he didn't want to study political science, that he loved music with every atom of his being. She'd reminded him of his cousins in Jamaica, struggling constantly just to make ends meet, and reminded him of all the opportunities he had that they didn't.

His dad had stepped in and said that while he was disappointed, that Pete needed to do what he loved to do, and not just what was expected of him. Boy, had he taken _that_ to heart. 

He can't believe he's sitting in some stranger's car, about to go to some huge house. But then, he's not really a stranger since he said he used to work with Joe. Then again, everyone knows Joe, so that doesn't narrow it down much. 

The car passes an odd mixture of skyscrapers and historical buildings, from what Pete can see through the darkness outside. Finally, the scenery seems to 'pop', and they're gliding through a small downtown area, they pass a red brick building proclaiming itself to be the "Beacon Hill Pub". It looks more like a New York brownstone to Pete.

They pass through it pretty quickly and then it's much of the same: good looking neighborhoods with a million trees lining the streets. He catches glimpses of some people outside of bars and in the windows of office buildings, all clean-cut and put-together even this late at night. This place screams of good schools and intimate coffee shops.

In truth it was actually gorgeous, all red brick sitting right on the Charles River. Pete knew he wouldn't fit into the air he breathed here. 

"We're almost there," Patrick says, interrupting Pete's train of thought. His stomach shakes with nerves. He's glad he remembered his anxiety medication, because Lord, he was going to need it this week. 

They pass through streets lined with more of those impressive red brick town-homes before they turn off onto a gorgeously lush neighborhood. Pete strains his eyes and sees gorgeous, sprawling houses lining the streets on both sides of him.

The car turns and slows, and they pull up to a large, beautiful house.

It's decked out in climbing ivy, and surrounded by manicured brickwork and bushes trimmed within an inch of their lives. He can see other houses just as impressive a comfortable distance away. Just far enough for privacy, and close enough to still keep up with the Joneses. He bets this place is gorgeous in the fall time. Even now, in early spring, it's stunningly bright and green. It hurts Pete's eyes.

The car pulls into the driveway, and Patrick is grabbing his bag and smiling tightly at him, and holy shit this is actually happening. 

"Here we are," Patrick says as he walks, his step faltering a little, over to Pete's side of the car, "Home sweet home." 

"Maybe for you," Pete mumbles, still struck by how _big_ the house is. It's not necessarily tall, but it's wide, and has an impressive facade. Patrick chuckles. 

"It'll be comfortable enough, so don't worry. And you don't have to meet anyone tonight, so that's a plus."

"Why not?" 

Patrick shrugs as they walk up to the double doors.

"They're out celebrating my sister Megan's promotion. They know I'm here, but she lives over in Chelsea, so they're staying there tonight and meeting us here tomorrow." 

"Is she younger or older?" 

"Older. I'm the baby of the family. I have an older brother too, but he lives in Oregon, so he doesn't visit much," Patrick answers, looking a little sad. 

It occurs to Pete in that moment that Patrick probably lives a lonely life, and that he's probably used to being left alone in this huge house by himself.

He tries to imagine eight-year-old Patrick, here for the first time since his parents split up. It makes his heart clench a little: he wouldn't have liked a house this big when he was that small. Hell, he wasn't really comfortable with it now. 

"I have a brother and sister, too. Younger though. I'm the oldest," Pete tells him.  

"Lucky," Patrick remarks, "It sucks being the youngest." 

"Hell no. Too much pressure being the oldest, man. You got the good spot."

Pete smiles at Patrick's expression. 

"So yeah, they'll be coming in tomorrow afternoon. It's just us tonight," Patrick adds, and the dirty part of Pete's mind buzzes at the implications of that.

Patrick looks the picture of innocence. 

Patrick unlocks the door, and they enter through the doors to the foyer, and God, these people actually have a foyer, complete with a massive wood staircase.

Pete sees some black and gold plaques just inside the doors.

"Why'd you call it an Estate?" he asks.

Patrick fumbles with his keys before he answers.

"It's mostly just a name now. It was built, like, three-hundred years ago by some general in my family when he came from Ireland, and it got passed down. My dad moved back here after my mom and he split up, and once my grandparents died, he inherited it."

He notices Pete reading one of the plaques and smiles, walking closer to him.

"I always hated these. Makes me feel like I live in a museum or something. But since this place is a historic building, they stay up."

He moves hesitantly toward the kitchen around the corner.

"Come on, kitchen's this way. I'm thirsty."

The kitchen is thoroughly modern, all sleek stainless steel and marble. Bright, art-gallery type lights hang from the ceiling. 

Pete remembers his own shoe-box of a kitchen. His whole apartment was built in like, the 40s, and it looks like it hasn't been renovated since D-Day. 

"You want something to drink?"

Patrick opens the fridge, setting his bag carefully onto the counter. Pete notices he doesn't look too comfortable here. He moves around like he's wearing something ill-fitting.

"Sure, thanks."

Patrick grabs two small bottles of Perrier from the fridge and hands one to Pete. While Patrick is texting someone, perched on the edge of the counter's bar stool, Pete takes in the house.

It seems massive, and luxurious, with cream walls and plush, dark rugs on the wood floors. He can see a living room in front of him, and a massive dining room (he notes the chandelier above the table) next to it.

He suddenly remembers his promise and grabs out his phone to text Andy and Joe that he made it safely. It's nearing 1:00 am now, and he's starting to feel the effects of the day. His mind wanders to the amazing showers this place must have. He feels grimy and sore.

He takes a few swigs of his water, feeling the bubbles pop all over his tongue. 

"It's getting late. I'll grab one of the guest bedrooms for you. I have one pretty close to my room," Patrick says.

He leads Pete out of the kitchen, throwing him a grin over his shoulder as they ascend the staircase.

"Wouldn't want you getting lost in here." 

The little flirtatious lines Patrick throws out once in a while take Pete by surprise, and he feels his face heat up. It's stupid, he's not some shy teenager anymore. This guy brings out the worst in him. 

"How many bedrooms does this place even have?" 

"Um, four," Patrick says, taking a quick drink of his own Perrier, "Well, six, including the guest bedrooms. They have adjoining bathrooms, so you don't have to navigate too much."

He leads Pete to the door of one. They're standing in the quiet hallway now, probably too close to each other. Pete can feel Patrick's body heat. 

He smells like travel and soap. He smells clean, and warm, and Pete's psycho brain suggests climbing in his skin and just staying there, safe.

He shakes off the thought. No need to come off as some weirdo right off the bat. They'll have plenty of time for that, Pete's sure. He can't quite curb the type of impression he tends to make. 

"Well, um, here's the guest room. There's towels in the wardrobe and the bathroom's to the right. My room is right down the hall if you need anything," Patrick says, gesturing down the hall, voice quiet even though they're alone. 

Pete studies his eyelashes, fanning out and casting shadows on his cheeks.

"Thanks. Really, Patrick. Thank you."

Patrick's mouth turns with a shy smile, and he looks down, fiddling with the lid of the bottle.  

"I couldn't just leave you alone in Boston to rot, you know," he replies quietly.

"I'm glad you didn't. Can I ask you something though?"

Patrick looks a little wary, but he nods.

"Why did you invite me? I mean, you don't really know me. I could be anyone. And, let's be real here, I wasn't in the best shape when you met me, anyway." Pete adds.

Patrick meets his eyes. They're gorgeous, and guarded. He pulls a little on the sleeve of his cardigan before he answers.

"Honestly, I felt bad for you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay," he begins.

He holds up his hands defensively when he catches the look on Pete's face.

"God, no, I don't mean for that to sound like I thought you were a pity-case or something. That's not what I mean. I just...I don't know. You were, like, lost and alone and I didn't know what to do so I panicked and offered, I guess."

He rambles, looks embarrassed.

"I guess I just...hoped you'd say yes. I mean, I don't like being here alone, especially for these family things. And it's been a long time since I really clicked with someone the way I did with you." 

Pete considers this for a minute before he ducks his head to meet Patrick's gaze.

"Hey, it's fine, okay? I'm sure you were just being nice," Pete says, "I mean, it's not like you knocked me out and dragged me here. I could've said no." 

Patrick nods, "I don't want you to think I took you in as a charity or something. If I'm being honest, my mom's been on my back about being a recluse," he admits, "Like my dad. And that hasn't worked out too well for him. I don't have a lot of friends. And I thought that we could maybe be friends, or something? I know, it's stupid and weird." 

Pete shakes his head, "No, it's fine. It's sweet." 

Patrick's expression twists a little.

"No, it's weird. You just have a terrible weirdness gauge." 

Pete laughs, "Dude, trust me, I know weird. And okay, so maybe it's weird, but so what? I've met friends under weirder circumstances." 

Patrick readjusts his bag, starting to move down the hall toward his room.

"I bet you have," he smikes at Pete, "You'll have to tell me some stories. But right now, I'm about to pass out in your arms if I don't sleep." 

Pete smirks, "I'd catch you." 

Patrick turns toward his door, but Pete catches him biting his lower lip at the comment, smiling a little.

Pete's stomach swoops at turning the tables for once.

He says goodnight and watches Patrick disappear into the room before he enters the guest room, feeling energetic all of a sudden. 

The room is huge, probably as big as his living room and kitchen put together, and all dressed up in expensive fabrics. There's artwork on the walls worth more than his dad's house. Each. 

Pete sets his bag down on the foot of the bed, and heads toward the door he presumes is the bathroom, wrestling his clothes off his body into a pile in the corner.

He stands there for a good five minutes, stark naked and sweating, staring at the different knobs and buttons the shower has. 

" _What the fuck?_ " he whispers to himself. The thing looks like the cockpit of the Enterprise.

After a few moments of getting doused in freezing-cold water, and at one point, whatever self-cleaning chemical the shower is equipped with, he thinks he's got the hang of it well enough to be able to successfully shower like a normal person.

He scrubs his hair and body with the little bottles of shampoo and gel on the shelves. This place looks like a hotel. He'd steal the soap for sure if it was. 

He struggles to turn the shower off again, but eventually he's drying himself off in front of the mirror. God, this place has a double sink and everything. It's ridiculous. 

He walks back to the bedroom and pulls a pair of clean underwear out of his bag. Finally, semi-dressed and feeling clean for the first time today, he turns out the lights and lays down on the gigantic bed, sinking into the down comforter. 

He's thankful he feels exhausted, having outran his insomnia threshold for once. He wonders absently if Patrick's room has the same shower setup, and how long it took to master that bullshit. He imagines it the other way around, Patrick standing there naked and bewildered at the sheer number of buttons the shower had.

And then he imagines Patrick naked, and sweating a little, like he was. And yep, now he's hard.

He can feel himself throbbing, pressing into the bed under him. He thinks about jerking off for a moment, before deciding that would really make him a Class-A creep, and he presses his hips into the bed harder, urging it to go down. 

He focuses on the fact that he's going to be meeting Patrick's entire family tomorrow, and the onslaught of nerves is a pretty good dissuasion for his dick.

They do nothing for his fatigue, though, and he falls asleep trying to get his heartbeat to slow down.   


End file.
